'Tis populous with Bone and stain —
And Men too straight to stoop again —,
And Piles of solid Moan —
And Chips of Blank — in Boyish Eyes —
And scraps of Prayer —
And Death's surprise,
Stamped visible — in Stone —

There's somewhat prouder, over there —
The Trumpets tell it to the Air —
How different Victory
To Him who has it — and the One
Who to have had it, would have been
Contenteder — to die —